some things a guy just can't
by Medie
Summary: Some things he just can't say...some things he can never ask.
1. some things a guy just can't

Title: some things a guy just can't...  
Author: M.  
Rating: PG13  
Spoilers: Scarecrow  
Summary: Some things he just can't say...some things he can never ask.  
Note: This is a belated christmas gift for **drkcherry** for the awesome beta.

_"The craft's a chick thing,"_ he can still hear her flippant words and see the cocky grin on her face, _"no boys allowed." _

He can't say he'll never say it, in this business you never say never on account of the fact some thing somewhere will damn well make you do it, but he knows he won't give it up easy. Fessing up to your baby brother that you're jealous he did what you couldn't is absolutely his idea of a good way to ruin a day. So, he doesn't plan on saying it but sometimes he has his moments of admitting it to himself. He's jealous that Sam walked away.

_"That's how it's going to be, isn't it? Always. He'll snap his fingers and you'll play good little soldier and rush right off."_ She was gorgeous when she was pissed off, dark hair swinging with the motion of her body, eyes full of the fire that was her trademark power, her voice dripping with acidic fury. _"God, Dean, you can't be serious!"_

The worst of it isn't that she can't understand his life. The worst of it is that she understands it, it's her life too and sometimes, Dean knows just what Sam feels. Sometimes, he hates Dad too.

_"Stay away from that girl, Dean." _Something in his eyes, something John couldn't - wouldn't - say. Something that he didn't want his son to know. _"She can't be involved in this. She or her family." _

He's tried to figure out what it is that his father holds back about Emma, about her family, but no joy. Just another shitload of secrets John holds back 'for their own good'.

The contempt in her eyes is the worst. _"Well, fancy meeting you here...don't see a leash, Daddy not with you?" _No matter when they meet or how they meet it's always there. She doesn't resent him for his connection to his family, she has her own loyalties. To her sister and to her cousins. She can't resent him for that and in their many arguments about it she's as much said so. _"Just once, Dean...just once can't you ask him why?"_

He doesn't ask why, not outright, and she hates him for it. Truth is, he hates himself, and Dad, for it too. He can't ask and his father won't say so the cycle keeps on going. They meet, they fight, they fuck, the phone rings and he's gone with recriminations ringing in his ears.

Sometimes, they're even hers.

Dean's hand lands on his cell.

Time to call Sam and maybe, hell, maybe this scarecrow's his time to say it...to them if not Dad.


	2. schisandra root & strawberry jam

title: schisandra root & strawberry jam

author: m

word count: 5589

rating: eh, pg

summary: he's always avoided her like the plague before.

note: sequel to some things a guy just can't. thanks to **kayim** for the beta. There is a passing Sentinel reference which links back to a prior series of drabbles that never got completed, consider it a nod to my old fandom love. there are no canon Charmed characters in this, Dean/OC is implied.

"schisandra root & strawberry jam"

The funny thing about living in the most dangerous city in America wasn't the militia men and terrorists lurking round every corner; though that did make for all sorts of giggles and guffaws. Getting aboard the bus or navigating traffic, one never knew the next time one would be taken hostage or commandeered by one of Cascade's Finest. It certainly kept the traffic accidents to a minimum and the city ranked high on safe driving statistics but no, that was not the funny thing about living in the city. The real funny thing about Cascade lay in the blissful ignorance its inhabitants cloaked themselves in. Terrorists, militia men, washed up basketball players gone wild...demons lurking in the sewer system, it all went over their heads as if it had never been.

Sunnydale had nothing on Cascade.

Some days, Emma Russell was absolutely convinced that it was so bad she could vanquish a demon in rush hour traffic and go completely unnoticed. It was, most of the time, a unique gift to be so free in her movement but there were days. The days that it frustrated her they could be so clueless as to the things lurking beneath and around them. Innocent did not mean ignorant but yet so very many of them were. It rankled but their ignorance was her gift. The last time anyone in their world had taken notice, ancestors had gone to the stake.

Let them pretend there were no monsters hiding in the shadows and no demons lurking in the dark, the flames that surrounded her now were flames of her own creation.

The unfortunate thing was that even pyrokinetic witches had to bow to the all-mighty Department of Motor Vehicles and the twenty minute errand one Thursday morning turned into a two hour wait in line which made her an hour late to open the shop. It was a delay which kicked off a domino effect of near catastrophes that served to put her into a foul mood by day's end.

Opening a store dealing in the paraphernalia of Wicca had made it easy to access the supplies she needed but, after a day of difficult customers she was beginning to reconsider the genius of that plan.

Her shoulders sagging with exhaustion, Emma trudged up the stairs, a hot bath and the latest Jennifer Cruise novel on her mind as she unlocked the door to let herself into the modest apartment she kept above the store. Both sounded utterly heavenly as did the tantalizing idea of pulling on her most comfortable pair of pjs and crawling beneath the big fluffy comforter on her bed.

_My glamorous life_, she thought wryly, dropping her keys on the counter, _in bed by ten_. As utterly pathetic as it sounded, she could think of nothing better.

With the water running, she was on her way to change in the robe when someone knocked on the door and, with a reluctant sigh, Emma turned off the water and let go of her plans. The last thing she was expecting when she opened the door was the very person waiting for her. Shocked out of her exhaustion, she gaped in disbelief at him. He was taller than she remembered but he looked as weary as she felt and maybe even a little nervous.

"Ms. Russell," that voice she remembered perfectly. Deep, compelling, and utterly misleading. The years had been kind to his face but she couldn't say the same for his soul. His eyes were shadowed and wounded, the demons lurking in their depths she could never hope to vanquish any more than she could the ones she saw in the eyes of his son.

Drawing herself up, Emma steeled herself to meet his eyes, "Mr. Winchester."

John Winchester surprised her when he smiled. "It's been a long time," he responded politely and she flashed back on Chicago: a heartbroken teenage girl, a stoic teenage boy, and angry accusations from her mother's eyes. The pain stung fresh and she bit her tongue to keep from snapping, "Not long enough," in response. Nothing would be served by bringing that up after she'd spent a decade getting it under control. John had come between them then but Dean was the one doing it now.

In the end, she didn't need to voice any of her thoughts. By the shadow that flickered over John's face, he'd seen it all play out in her eyes. "It has been," she put the apology into her words, stepping back.

He ducked his head and looked at her, "I'd like to speak with you."

Emma moved back to let him in. "So speak."

---

"I'm sorry to barge in on you like this." John Winchester sitting at her little kitchen table, a mug of coffee in his hands, waiting for her to finish cooking was as surreal as surreal got. "Last thing I have any right doing is asking for your help...not after everything."

Emma kept her back turned, whisking the eggs about in the bowl as if her life depended on it. God knew her temper certainly did. Where the Winchesters were concerned, the stubborn rational streak that was her trademark evaporated. She'd spend a decade alternately demonizing and rationalizing the man sitting in her kitchen but always blaming him. The mess that was the thing she called her relationship with Dean was in part her responsibility but the initial wound had been dealt by John. A decade of anger made her body stiff with tension and her movements jerky. Words wouldn't come easily to answer him, the only things she wanted to say were the very things she couldn't. Screaming out her frustration at him was not going to help matters. The man sitting behind her was on the edge of breaking and, hunter or not, he was Innocent with a capital I. She was honor-bound to protect him whether he liked it or not.

_Whether I like it or not, _she added grimly. She didn't like it, not one bit, but there were rules to the way she lived and used the powers given to her.

Squaring her shoulders, she put the bowl down and bent to dig out a frying pan. "You have every right to ask for my help," she explained, keeping the resentment out of her voice, "I have no right to deny it." He was Dean's father, and even if he was an utter disaster in that department, she had to respect that. Dean loved him and, whether she liked the man or not, she had to love him too. Which was why she was cooking a meal for him and not because cooking settled her nerves.

Still, the sound of the eggs hissing as they connected with the heated surface of the pan was reassuring and she let her mind drift. The simple action drained away some of the tension gripping her and gave Emma the reprieve she needed. With her mother in Chicago and Hannah away, she had to handle things on her own. She was the stereotypical competent and controlled big sister most days, control being a prerequisite for a life like the one she led, but the tension didn't do her any favors. She was halfway to a tension headache and rolled her shoulders in an attempt to stave it off.

This was not what she needed tonight.

"Emma." Behind her, John said her name like he was trying it out and she realized then something she should have known before. It was so blindingly obvious she couldn't see how she'd missed it. She was another of the many topics that the Winchester men did not discuss. Probably taped up in Dean's head with a big ol' red flashing light over her head blaring 'do not talk' to the world. Unsurprising, from the little Dean had told her over the years, there weren't a lot of heart to hearts going on in the family. To John, she was probably little more than that witch his son occasionally slept with if he even knew that much.

Risking a glance over her shoulder, she found him watching her with appraising eyes. Catching the look possessed her with the sudden and nearly irrepressible urge to giggle. He seemed as if he was about to ask her intentions regarding his son and wouldn't that be a trip? She couldn't answer a question to which even she didn't know the answer. Precisely where the history with Dean was heading she had absolutely no idea. She'd had a decade to try and figure it out and was no closer than when she'd begun.

She didn't know what was going on behind the questions in his eyes and, in truth, she was afraid to know. Turning her head, she gave the eggs a vicious poke and far more concentration than they deserved. She wasn't truly scared by much any more, too many years spent facing down too many nightmares in too many alleyways for real fear, but she was afraid now.

_What do you want?_ She asked the question silently, too afraid of the answer to give it voice. Her sister would have blurted it out, rushing heedlessly into an emotional minefield without a thought to the consequence. Emma couldn't do that, when she was afraid of the answer she couldn't ask the question.

---

"When was the last time you actually ate a decent meal?"

Watching him gulp down the food as if he'd never seen scrambled eggs and toast before in his life, Emma had a feeling it had been quite a while. Judging by the surprised expression on his face when John looked up at her, she realized he truly didn't know the answer. Unconsciously, she started to reach out to reassure him as she would have done with Dean. Realizing her action, she compensated by pushing the jar of strawberry jam toward him as though that had been her intention all along. "Too long," he said quietly and she thought she saw a flush of embarrassment redden his cheeks. "You don't get much in the way of home cooking in diners."

To hold back a comment, she bit the inside of her cheek so hard she nearly drew blood. His son was living the same life and what kind of life was it? Holding back the words took the all her self-control and the reminder Dean was an adult, he made his own choices even the choices that left her behind. "No," she agreed instead, "you can't."

He watched her for a long moment and she had the feeling he'd again picked up on her thoughts when he grinned. The action revealed just where Dean had picked up the devil-may-care smile that never failed to make her weak in the knees. Just how much trouble had Mary Winchester had with this man and how much had she enjoyed it? "You'd like nothing better than to haul off and belt me into next Tuesday wouldn't you?"

_Well, the thought had crossed my mind. _She'd never admit it, of course so she tilted her head and laced her fingers together. "Would it make you feel better if I did?"

Her answer didn't seem to be the one he was expecting and he sat back, giving her what she suspected amounted to as honest as he got. "To be honest...yes."

---

The Book of Shadows was a comforting presence beneath her palms, grounding her against the turmoil John's visit had thrown her into. The tradition bound up in the cherished heirloom reassured her with the foundation it provided. So many women had come before her and contributed to its pages, she was but the latest in a long line and more would follow after.

She felt more than saw John enter the room, moving tentatively toward the stand. He was hardly the tentative type but he well remembered the last time he'd been near the book. Emma didn't think he would forget that particular incident anytime soon.

"If it helps any," she found the levity to say, "my mother is in Chicago and not even her powers can reach this far."

John chuckled, a sound she found she liked. In a different world, she had the sense he'd make a great father-in-law. As it was, he was barely any kind of father. "That's easy for you to say, wasn't you she tossed through a plate glass window. I'm still pickin' shards out of my ass."

She bit her lip against the laugh that threatened. Evelyn Russell was a formidable woman at the best of times, when protecting her daughters and their legacy she was downright invincible. "You were the one with the gun."

He slanted at her. "In my pocket, where she couldn't see it, not pointed at anyone."

"Still had it."

An approving look filled his eyes and he nodded. "Bet you drive Dean crazy," he commented, amused. The comment left her thunderstruck, as shocked by it as she had been by his arrival. Something he didn't miss. "Had a lot of time to think about it, Emma. Fact is, should have known it sooner."

This was his idea of an olive branch, his coming here, and she was an idiot to have missed that too. Seemed she was making a regular habit of that. Closing her eyes, she swallowed compulsively and pulled herself together. "You said you needed my help," she said finally, coming back to the one thing she was confident in. If she couldn't fall back on her magic, she would just keep falling. He was the one that had made the first move, the one she should have made years ago, and it was embarrassing to think it. John Winchester was the one who she'd viewed as the emotional cripple moving like a wrecking ball through their lives. He had company in that respect it seemed. "I'm assuming when you said that you didn't mean my strawberry jam."

"No ma'am," he drawled lazily, "though I wouldn't mind a jar or two of that for the road. Make a lot of things a lot more bearable." Reaching out, he tapped the weathered binding of the book. "Dean said you've got about three hundred years of research written in this thing."

She opened it, feeling the pages sliding easily beneath her fingertips. "It's a little more involved than just research, adding to the book is a rite of passage. Everything good, or bad, the witches of my family have encountered over the centuries has been recorded here in the Book of Shadows for their daughters that would follow. Every generation adds theirs, my mother and grandmother added things, I have added things. As comprehensive as it is, exhaustively so sometimes, I have still managed to encounter things that my ancestor had never even conceived of." Most little girls learned how to bake cookies from their grandmothers. Little Emma and Hannah had learned how to write their own spells and brew their own potions. "If it's not in here, you add it. Those that follow will need to know."

Emma moved to the side and gestured for him to join her. "Is this..." Abruptly, she hesitated, biting her cheek uncertainly. She didn't want to go there if...

In a motion that was almost reverent, John rested his hands on the book's pages. "Is this about my wife? About Mary?" He sighed, fingers tracing the calligraphy on a page. "Can't say I haven't wondered if the thing that killed her, how to kill it, is in here. Was what I was looking for back then."

She had thought as much. With the scant information she'd managed to wring out of Dean over the years, little scraps of second-hand recollections, she had never been able to narrow it down. "Possibly, I've never had much luck before but I can say this, John, one of us out there has likely dealt with it., maybe even vanquished something like it." She had to believe that, for all their sakes she had to believe that.

"I'm hoping so but, I admit, it's not why I came here tonight." John Winchester seemed hell bent on surprising her with one thing after another. She couldn't quite settle down before the next one. Instead, she watched him with confusion as he dug a photograph out of his pocket and hold it out to her. "I was followin' up on a missing boy on the other side of town. Tracked him to an abandoned warehouse...ran into something I'd never seen before. Emptied everything I had into the damn thing and only managed to piss 'em off more."

Emma took the picture of the little boy in hand for a moment. "What did it look like?" Passing the photograph back, she started flipping her way through the pages. "Be specific."

She caught the 'well, duh' glance John tossed her way to response to the comment. Was there a single expression in Dean's repertoire that he hadn't inherited from his father. "Sorry," she apologized, anything but. "Forgot who I was talking to."

"No, you didn't," he countered good-naturedly. "They were tall, about 6'5 maybe 6'7, black suits, and white - almost translucent – skin. Strange eyes, difficult to describe," John paused, as if trying to extract as much data as he could from his memory, a process which was almost visceral in the level of concentration. "Reddish tinge to the irises, motion atypical to that of a human. Definitely a demon, nothing slowed it down for long. Damn thing almost strangled me to death. Didn't lay a hand on me, just raised a hand and I was down."

"No, and he wouldn't need to touch in order to finish you off. Frankly, I'm surprised you made it out in one piece though I suppose I shouldn't be." She tapped a page with one blunt nail, indicating an entry. "I think you're dealing with Grimlocks." She looked over to find him staring at her with the question written all over his face. "They're like demonic hitmen, they hunt down and eliminate those who have the potential to be powerful forces of good in the world.

"In order to find these people, they steal the eyesight of innocent children." She moved to let him read the page.

"The stolen eyesight lets them see the auras of these people?" Emma nodded in answer to John's question.

"Yes, exactly. When they looked at you, they must have seen a threat," she smiled faintly. "Consider that a rather twisted verification if you wish. Now, the upside here is that they can't kill the boy. The stolen eyesight lasts twenty-four hours but only if the children they take are still alive. We have time to find the missing boy before that period is up, he'll be fine."

"If we find him after that period?"

"Blind but alive." She looked down at the rest of the information on the page. "The real damage of the Grimlocks is what they use the stolen eyesight to do. If they've taken one boy to steal his eyesight, they'll take another child and when they do they'll begin killing and the people who die..."

---

The truck was precisely what she expected of John Winchester. Sitting in it, she felt as though the ground they'd gained was slipping away. She clutched the potion in her hands, hearing the liquid slosh with the bumps and breaks in the road.

More often than not she thought she would never really understand them. Demons, warlocks, potions and spells...They had been a part of her world for as long as she could remember.

Her mother and grandmother passing along the secrets of the family's history as a rite of passage into womanhood. Teach teaching her how to survive and to protect others in the process, instilling a respect for duty. She had never known another way, she hadn't been introduced to it through a random act of violence and death.

This was not a pursuit of vengeance and because it was not, she couldn't understand.

She wasn't sure she wanted to.

---

Always with the filth and the mire…

Emma didn't hide the look of disgust on her face as they picked their way through the abandoned building. She was sure John had to be having a damn good laugh at her expense but dammit she was entitled to her rare moments of girlishness. She vanquished demons that'd make most people lose their lunch, freaking out over a rat was a fair trade off.

Besides, one thing she'd learned about the Winchester men was they didn't have nearly enough laughter in their lives. If her freaking out over ruining yet another pair of shoes – and really, she should have bought stock in Payless – gave it to them then so be it.

John looked over his shoulder at her and she almost grinned at the frustration lurking in his eyes. It was driving him crazy she wouldn't carry a gun but then, he'd never seen her use her power and, well…what would she need a gun for? In her experience, they only tended to piss a demon off and her general appearance tended to do that for her. The only time witches were a demon's favorite sight was when they came with ketchup and a little basil seasoning.

She checked the vials containing the potion once more before stopping at his side. "Forget the gun," she argued again, holding out one of the vials, "you said yourself it won't work. Throw this in his eyes, it'll be enough."

He took the vial and looked at it speculatively. "If it were anyone else, I'd say you were out of your mind but..." He paused and she could practically see the memories playing out in his mind. "From what I've seen..."

_You've avoided us like the plague before_...She didn't say it but she didn't need to. Dean had admitted as much more than once. John had actively encouraged him staying away from her but would never come out and say precisely WHY.

Another mystery about the Winchesters she would never understand.

"It will work," she emphasized instead. "As I said, just aim for the eyes. Anywhere else and I can't guarantee that it will work." She felt ridiculous warning him about it, as long as he'd been at it but she couldn't stop herself. Nervous babbling was her sister's quirk, not hers and Grimlocks were hardly the type of thing to put her ill at ease. Present company, however, certainly was.

---

The roar of John yelling her name was Emma's first clue something was wrong. Spinning on her heel she found a Grimlock bearing down on her, hand already raised. Instinct borne of constant instruction brought her hand up just as quickly.

Flames shot outward from her upraised hand, driving the Grimlock at the same moment a shotgun fired and a bullet thudded into its chest.

Predictably, the demon lunged forward but Emma, the closer, was ready with the vial in her hand. She waited until the last second, John shouting "DO IT!" the only thing she could hear, then flung the potion outward. It struck his face dead on, splashing up into his eyes. She stumbled backward, her heart in her throat, nearly tripping over the uneven ground.

The demon stumbled backward as well, a shout of indignation dying on his lips as his body literally crumbled away.

Emma froze when John caught her, keeping her upright. Whether it was the gun right before her eyes or the realization of who it was that had caught her, she honestly didn't know.

Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to get the racing of her heart under control before managing to say, "One down."

"At least one to go," he agreed. "You all right?"

"My dignity is a wreck but that wouldn't be the first time," practically pushing out of his hold, she brushed at her clothing, a nervous reflex she could never quite suppress. "This business doesn't exactly allow for it."

"This business doesn't allow for a lot of things," he pointed out somberly. "The boy must be deeper in with the other one. You got more of that stuff just in case?"

"I might not have been a Girl Scout but I tend to plan like one." Emma assured, patting the bag over her shoulder. "Always bring extra."

John's eyes strayed toward the pile that had once been a demon. "Yeah, well, if you don't mind, I'm taking it when I go, along with the recipe."

"I can give you the ingredients yes. It doesn't require magical ability for use." She squinted her eyes suspiciously. "It only works on Grimlocks and I'm not sure filling up a bullet with it would be enough."

Caught, he snuck a wry grin her way. "Can't blame a man for thinking it."

"Well, it certainly isn't as if a woman would," she shot back unperturbed. It wasn't something she would have ordinarily said, at least not to him, but she was tired and a little hyper with the adrenaline. That was her excuse, at any rate, as to why she just couldn't keep her mouth shut. Nerves and exhaustion sounded quite plausible.

John's response was another snicker and a murmured comment about Dean which only served to make her wonder just what the hell had happened to suddenly change his mind. She knew she didn't stand a chance of getting any kind of answer out of him but she very much wanted one. There was always a truth spell but there was that nasty little personal gain angle and she was not about to risk that to satisfy her curiosity. "Let's get moving," he said, holding the vial of potion he held in his hand. "Don't want to keep our date waiting."

She made a face. "If that's your idea of a date..." She didn't finish the sentence, the pained look she caught glimpse of in his eye stayed her tongue.

To love someone that much...

Emma didn't have to ask what had caused all John's problems, all she had to do was look in his eyes.

---

Deep in the dampest part of the cave system, they found the boy, and a little girl, curled up in a cage. The Grimlock standing before the cage reacted more quickly than his comrade and Emma cried out in pain as she grabbed at her throat, instinctively trying to pry away hands that weren't there. She'd certainly been in this position before, at a demon's mercy, but that did not lessen the terror. It clawed up inside of her and she tried to scream but the air wouldn't come. The children were sobbing quietly, too terrified to do anything more. The boy, his sight restored by the death of the first demon, watched in horror and tried in vain to comfort the blind, girl. That was the worst. It didn't matter as much if she died, and oh God but she was seeing spots, but if that little girl lost her sight...the last thing she had ever seen being the face of a Grimlock...

This time there was no report of a gun, John had learned his lesson the first time. Winchesters learned quick when it counted, she knew that. As she crumpled forward, Emma caught a sight of him launching himself forward. The cry of rage that tore free of him was animalistic and she wondered just who he was killing. Did he even see the Grimlock? Did he see any of them or was he killing the same demon over and over and over again?

Blackness claimed her before she could think any further.

---

"Emma, c'mon...wake up now." The feeling of hands lightly patting her cheeks annoyed and she waved a hand, ineffectually, trying to bat them away. The voice chuckled in response. "Atta girl, open your eyes and hit me like you mean it."

She squinted against the light of the truck cab, seeing the outline of John Winchester's head as he looked down at her from the passenger's side door. "Careful," she warned, her voice hoarse. "I just might take you up on that offer."

"Yeah, well, like I said before, you've certainly got the right," he helped her sit up properly, leaning her back against the seat. "Called your cop friends," he held up her cellphone. She had Jim and Blair's numbers programmed in, just in case. "They're on the way to pick up the kids."

"How are they?" She asked, rubbing at her forehead.

"Better than you." John gestured to the children sitting together on the other side of the seat. Both children were wrapped in a blanket, each clutching a juice pack as though their lives depended on it. They seemed better than the glimpse she'd gotten in the cave but she knew it would get worse later. The initial trauma had passed but it would come back with a vengeance. They'd seen something their parents and most adults would tell them was impossible, dealing with it would be a battle. "They'll be all right...mostly."

He could see it too and, like her, it pissed him off.

"I'll speak to Blair," she promised quietly. "It might not be much but...He's pretty persuasive when he wants to be. If he can, he'll find a way to help."

"You trust those two," he looked skeptical.

"With my life." Emma promised. It was the literal truth, trusting them with the knowledge of the family secret was trusting them with her life and then some. She smiled faintly. "If you want to avoid them you should probably wait back at the shop. The children will be fine with me." The Winchester aversion to the all things police related was legendary. "The Grimlocks are gone, anything else that tries something will be sorry."

He grinned, a quick flash of a smile. "No kiddin', now I know why you didn't need the gun. That, lady, is one hell of an impressive ability."

"It certainly has its advantages," she agreed wryly. "Learning how to control it, however, was easier said than done." Often at the expense of her mother's furniture but that had given Hannah a chance to practice her power. Freezing the fires her sister inadvertantly started was a great way to grow accustomed to the ins and outs of it.

"Burned Momma's sofa huh?" John leaned against the open truck door, the expression on his face the same one she'd seen on her mother's face more than once. Parental amusement in any form was immediately recognizable. He was, no doubt, thinking of every potential hazard raising a young burgeoning pyrokinetic witch and probably right about every single one. The legends told in the Russell family were entertaining to say the least.

"Sofa, chairs, dining set..." She ticked each one off on her fingers. "Just when I had a handle on it, the damn thing grew again and I'd have to learn it all over." She sighed and snuggled back into the coat John had draped over her shoulders. The man was a frustratingly determined gentleman, which also explained where Dean managed to pick that up. It was not a trait she would have associated with him and it was damned unnerving. "It should bother me, shouldn't it? The fact that I'm sitting here discussing this and nothing about it really bothers me. If anything, the only thing that bothers me is the fact that it doesn't."

It was one of the key differences between them, she suspected. John Winchester had known what it meant to have a normal life devoid of magic, demons, and the never ending war. She didn't. She had inherited the battle from her mother, an heirloom passed down through the generations going back centuries. This was normal for her, she'd never known - would never know - any other life so...she'd never know what she was missing.

John knew only too well.

"Remember..." she'd begun this little sidetrip with the air of surreality hanging over the moment, it was only fitting she conclude it in the same way. Sending John Winchester off with strawberry jam and schisandra root felt like some odd bastardization of some fifties sitcom. Only she doubted she was anything approaching a future daughter-in-law and he definitely wasn't heading off to watch a grand child's little league game.

"Aim for the eyes," he finished for her, taking the bags and putting them in the truck.

"Well, I was going to say not to mix them up. Grimlocks love strawberry jam, you give it to them once and they're hooked. A strung out Grimlock looking for his next strawberry score is not a pretty sight," her dry turn of phrase earned a soft chuckle in response.

"Got it." John affirmed, looking down at her with a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. He didn't know how to handle this anymore than she did and somehow that helped.

"I'll call ahead," she managed finally, stepping back. "Don't want Mom smashing the hell out of another window with you."

He flashed a shadow of a grin at her and nodded, "I'd appreciate it..." He hesitated. "Emma..." Everything that needed to be said but could never be voiced was in her name and she nodded.

"I know," she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans and smiled crookedly. "I'm sorry too."

And the kicker of it all?

She really was.

finis


End file.
